Pilgrimage to Blue Lake
For so many years, you have built elaborate cairns
along the trail to the house of your self. You have found
just the right rocks for balancing, just the point in the trail
where you might get lost—so that in every season,
in the deepest snow, you can find your way back.
Each time, you have laid the fire in the meadow
at the edge of the lake with the kindling of your joy
and your grief—watched the flames burn slowly at first,
then fast and high as they quicken, bringing light to dark spaces.
And so it is, that when you arrive on the shores of Blue Lake
this day, just after a fleet of storm clouds has past, you hear
a different drumbeat pulsing from the land, as the honeyed light
plays off the thin layers of ice and flow. Winter glints
from the eye of summer~ and you wonder if it is time to build
a stronger nest here for this next round of seasons, or if it is time
to fledge all together. And the 400 year old spruce whisper~
come close to the conversation that lives in the center
of all that noise within. Perched here, at the top of the world
you stand shaky, barely balanced on the edge of this and that.
Choose, the lake says, lapping against shore, the dusky lines
merging with sky. And below and beyond is the great horizon
you wish to call your own. But you have never quite believed
you could walk beyond these cairns you have so carefully tended.
And this sacred valley is filled with mist—for the light
has been drinking the snow all day long, and now you and the sky
are drunk on the cascade of tiny pink flowers bursting from cracks
in ancient granite. And the 400 years old spruce whisper,
tell me your story—and you wonder which one you will tell.
Will you speak about the sack of stones you have carried
from your lineage? Or will you tell them about this infinite field
that is your heart opening and closing, the blue lake
of your soul freezing and thawing~ the one of you who,
right in this moment, is shattering into a thousand diamonds
on the water, each jewel a note in eternity’s song?
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